Day 43: Menasha, WI to Scottville, MI
Back on my bike!
It's been about 5 days since my visit to Northfield Hospital, the time period the doctor had said I should wait out before beginning light riding. Today's ride was just 60 miles. I planned yesterday to begin riding at 5A and counting a breakfast stop and a speed of 10 mph, to arrive at Manitowoc, WI- 50 miles from Menasha- by 11A, well in advance of the 12:30P ferry boarding to get across Lake Michigan.
Of course, things don't always work out as planned. I rolled out of the campsite with two fellow riders, Ken from Kingston, NY--a retired IBM engineer--and Paul from Minnesota--a Dartmouth grad who's been a swim coach almost all his life--, closer to 6A than 5A. It was raining, not hard, but enough for us to look up at the gray sky while we were knocked around by cross-winds, and think that it didn't look so good.
We all had strawberry waffles at a local diner about 6 miles outside of Menasha. Lightning flashed through the diner windows and the rain let loose, and after waiting about 20 minutes, it didn't seem as if waiting would do any more good than riding through the weather. I punched holes through a trash bag, pulled it over me and tucked it into my shorts, and began riding. Though trying to relax, I gripped the handlebars so tightly my thumbs grew numb. I was so scared of falling and re-fracturing my collarbone. Especially on the slick pavement.
But my friends rode with me, slowly, though steadily, and made sure I was riding at a pace that would ensure that I'd get to the ferry on time. Moreover, a few other riders joined us, some riding ahead calling out obstacles well in advance and others flanking me from behind, calling out cars coming up on us from behind. I was well taken care of and let go of my death grip slightly.
On one of the roads, though (and there are almost no cars going through this farm country), a dozen silver dollar-sized frogs began jumping across the road in the rain daring us to squash them under our tires. And with the lightning in the distance, my friends protecting me, being back on my bicycle, I realized that I was smiling (still held on tight to the handlebars, though!) REALLY BIG! and was enjoying every moment of the ride. The rain was refreshing, the gray clouds gave us sun cover, and the smell of the storm made me feel so fortunate to be strong enough to ride my bicycle and experiencing all of this rather than riding the support van right then.
I got to the ferry, rode the S.S. Badger for 4 hours and simply put my head down on a table and drooled on my arm as I tried to sleep through my seasickness compounded by the boat tossing. There had been a green Volkswagon loaded on to the bottom deck--green for two reasons: the paint job and the job done on it from several people, green themselves, from the upstairs deck. A woman working in the galley told me that it was the choppiest day all summer.
But I made it across the lake, got back on my bike, and finished the day's ride into Scottville. I made it. :) I got a chance to ride into the final time zone we'd be crossing--Eastern.
Day 42: Wisconsin Rapids to Menasha, WI
We wound through County Roads W, D, H, A, GG, T, U, J, AA . . . . They took us through the corn fields, along the edge of Lake Winnebago, and past the town of Winneconne, "a little drinking town with a big fishing problem." In Wild Rose, stands proudly sold "redneck vegetables" and "redneck ammunition." I didn't bother to stop at these retail outlets, but I did stop at Beans 'n Buns, a coffee shop/gift shop in Winneconne that happenned to also sell homemade dog biscuits.
The Maplewood Middle School cheerleaders came by the school gym tonight where we had eaten dinner to sell chocolate bars as they were fundraising to cover the cost of new uniforms. After the cheerleaders demonstrated a few cheers (imagine timid 12-year-olds standing in front of fifty old and haggard people, all knackard--as the British would say--who, though not meaning to be rude, are about to fall asleep in their chairs because it's past 7:30P, their bed time.) the ever-hungry cyclists ended up buying a lot of chocolate bars.
Wisconsin roads are just about the best roads you can find anywhere. I've realized that road construction, though it holds up traffic and forces you to take long detours, is absolutely necessary to maintain high quality roads. (Yes, it does seem obvious, but one never considers the obvious when you're grumpy about three lanes merging into one because of road maintenance.) Hawai'i's roads are horrible compared to Wisconsin's and I've promised myself to welcome orange cones and signs and realized that driving more slowly, if it means a smoother ride down the road, is much more important than pushing through traffic. After all, how much more quickly do we need to get places? Another good reason not to have a packed schedule: biker saftey. :)
Day 41: Osseo to Wisconsin Rapids, WI
Instead of only corn and soybean fields, cranberry bogs began to pop up. I talked to my father on the phone yesterday and he mentioned that the largest grower in the U.S. of ginseng was in Wisconsin. I thought, "Ginseng in *Wisconsin*?" "You sure, Dad?" "Yeah!" and my dad began to describe what the leaves looked like. I assumed my father got Wisconsin mixed up with some other place and that his facts weren't straight. But, I found out my dad (as is often the case) was right: Marathon County in northern Wisconsin hosts the largest ginseng farm in North America. Our route doesn't take us this far north, though all the fields in green that I couldn't identify today I assumed to be ginseng.
Before riding the trainer for a couple of hours this afternoon, I finished a Steinbeck novel, _Tortilla Flats_. It was basically about a bunch of friends hanging around near Monterey. Each character vignette seemed to be an allegory for *something*, though I couldn't figure out what. I didn't try very hard to figure it out, though. I suppose the book, like this ride and all the people and places I'm experiencing, is simply "as is." And that's cool without having to be overtly exciting.
Day 40: Pepin to Osseo, WI
A group called something like "The Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Society" served us breakfast. They maintain the history of her travels across the U.S. from her birthplace in Pepin, WI, upkeep one of her former homes, and run the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum. A large sign of a cartoon caricature of a girl in a large white bonnet, blue skirt, and white apron, head tucked down, holding a pink flower ensures that all passersby on Highway 35 don't miss the museum.
Now, I remember reading _Little House in the Big Woods_ and _Little House on the Prarie_ when I was 12 or so. One of the few things I remember from the books was that Laura's mother patted the cornbread batter with her hands to sweeten the loaf before putting it in the oven. "Your mother's touch is all the sweetness we need," her father had told her. I also remembered a part of a story of Laura and her family eating watermelon next to a campfire while coyotes howled in the distance.
These images crossed my mind as I rode in the support van through the hills on County Road D through Modena and Mondovi on the way to Osseo. I passed an old Lutheran "Kirke" where Country Road D met Country Road J--the only building for miles in the rolling green hills. In Mondovi, as I stood right outside a green-trimmed yellow house dedicated to the Green Bay Packers, I waved to a family driving their horse and buggy down County Road H. The father, hat brim low, turned and tossed a quick wave while the mother, keeping her eyes ahead, held her young son on her lap on top of the folds of her long black skirt. I imagined that family still living in a little house in the big woods; I imagined the people living in the Green Bay shrine barbecueing on their front lawn while cheering the Packers to another SuperBowl win. Wisconsinites.
Day 39: Northfield, MN to Pepin, WI
So Harry/Dr. Seper did not give the all clear to ride my bike, but he DID say that regaining movement in my shoulder was key. Because I had been wearing a brace since the accident, I only had minimal movement in my shoulder. He encouraged me to start doing everyday things again that I had avoided: brush my teeth with my right hand, comb my hair and draw it back in a ponytail, wash my face with two hands . . . . And so I started to last night. It was all very tough-- I had to slide my hand up the wall in order to raise it high enough to begin tying back my hair.
I also decided last night that since I couldn't ride my bicycle, and since I had been advised to do "everyday things" again, I would go for a run on the Cannon Valley Bicycle Trail that the bicyclists took this morning. It's a beautiful paved trail connecting Cannon Falls to RedWing, about 20 miles apart. Yup, me, stubborn (as usual) and a bit frustrated that I couldn't rejoin the other riders just yet, went for a 20+-mile run with a *slightly* broken collarbone.
The trick was that once I started, I couldn't turn back. There is no road paralleling the bicycle trail, no intersections to turn off on. The trail stretches for those 20 miles through dense trees, thick mosquito patches, and towards the end of the trail, behind industrial warehouses--which the trees do a fair job covering up the view of. But I went slowly and pressed on, chatting with fellow bicyclists as they rode past. Many rode alongside next to me including Diana, a first mate on shipping vessels that travel between the West Coast and Hawai'i; Mark, a former officer in the Air Force and recently home to the U.S. after two years in Africa in the Peace Corps; John, a jeweler from Colorado; and Paul, my riding buddy for the past several weeks, a British actuary with a quick wit. They offered me water, food, and their great company. I felt as if I were in the Tour de France, my crew supporting me the entire way. And I did make it to Red Wing, sore though happy, where we had a lunch stop at a marina.
There happened to be a statue of Charles Lindbergh near the picnic tables we ate at. The bronze memorialized him as a boy, smiling, balanced on one foot, leaning forward, arms outstretched to his sides as if he were a bird. And I couldn't help but think: how appropriate. :)
Tonight I walked to the BP station a few blocks from the school. Unlike most gas stations, the food mart had a few tables indoors you could sit at and enjoy the ice cream or burger or muffins (that were baked down the street) you bought from the counter. A couple of friends and I each ordered a double scoop of Moose Tracks ice cream (chocolate bits, caramel, pecans, vanilla ice cream). "Could you make that an *extra large* double scoop?" The bushy red-haired manager smiled, handed us the ice cream, and swept the floors and chatted with us as we ate the tracks left by humongous moose.
Back on my bike!
It's been about 5 days since my visit to Northfield Hospital, the time period the doctor had said I should wait out before beginning light riding. Today's ride was just 60 miles. I planned yesterday to begin riding at 5A and counting a breakfast stop and a speed of 10 mph, to arrive at Manitowoc, WI- 50 miles from Menasha- by 11A, well in advance of the 12:30P ferry boarding to get across Lake Michigan.
Of course, things don't always work out as planned. I rolled out of the campsite with two fellow riders, Ken from Kingston, NY--a retired IBM engineer--and Paul from Minnesota--a Dartmouth grad who's been a swim coach almost all his life--, closer to 6A than 5A. It was raining, not hard, but enough for us to look up at the gray sky while we were knocked around by cross-winds, and think that it didn't look so good.
We all had strawberry waffles at a local diner about 6 miles outside of Menasha. Lightning flashed through the diner windows and the rain let loose, and after waiting about 20 minutes, it didn't seem as if waiting would do any more good than riding through the weather. I punched holes through a trash bag, pulled it over me and tucked it into my shorts, and began riding. Though trying to relax, I gripped the handlebars so tightly my thumbs grew numb. I was so scared of falling and re-fracturing my collarbone. Especially on the slick pavement.
But my friends rode with me, slowly, though steadily, and made sure I was riding at a pace that would ensure that I'd get to the ferry on time. Moreover, a few other riders joined us, some riding ahead calling out obstacles well in advance and others flanking me from behind, calling out cars coming up on us from behind. I was well taken care of and let go of my death grip slightly.
On one of the roads, though (and there are almost no cars going through this farm country), a dozen silver dollar-sized frogs began jumping across the road in the rain daring us to squash them under our tires. And with the lightning in the distance, my friends protecting me, being back on my bicycle, I realized that I was smiling (still held on tight to the handlebars, though!) REALLY BIG! and was enjoying every moment of the ride. The rain was refreshing, the gray clouds gave us sun cover, and the smell of the storm made me feel so fortunate to be strong enough to ride my bicycle and experiencing all of this rather than riding the support van right then.
I got to the ferry, rode the S.S. Badger for 4 hours and simply put my head down on a table and drooled on my arm as I tried to sleep through my seasickness compounded by the boat tossing. There had been a green Volkswagon loaded on to the bottom deck--green for two reasons: the paint job and the job done on it from several people, green themselves, from the upstairs deck. A woman working in the galley told me that it was the choppiest day all summer.
But I made it across the lake, got back on my bike, and finished the day's ride into Scottville. I made it. :) I got a chance to ride into the final time zone we'd be crossing--Eastern.
Day 42: Wisconsin Rapids to Menasha, WI
We wound through County Roads W, D, H, A, GG, T, U, J, AA . . . . They took us through the corn fields, along the edge of Lake Winnebago, and past the town of Winneconne, "a little drinking town with a big fishing problem." In Wild Rose, stands proudly sold "redneck vegetables" and "redneck ammunition." I didn't bother to stop at these retail outlets, but I did stop at Beans 'n Buns, a coffee shop/gift shop in Winneconne that happenned to also sell homemade dog biscuits.
The Maplewood Middle School cheerleaders came by the school gym tonight where we had eaten dinner to sell chocolate bars as they were fundraising to cover the cost of new uniforms. After the cheerleaders demonstrated a few cheers (imagine timid 12-year-olds standing in front of fifty old and haggard people, all knackard--as the British would say--who, though not meaning to be rude, are about to fall asleep in their chairs because it's past 7:30P, their bed time.) the ever-hungry cyclists ended up buying a lot of chocolate bars.
Wisconsin roads are just about the best roads you can find anywhere. I've realized that road construction, though it holds up traffic and forces you to take long detours, is absolutely necessary to maintain high quality roads. (Yes, it does seem obvious, but one never considers the obvious when you're grumpy about three lanes merging into one because of road maintenance.) Hawai'i's roads are horrible compared to Wisconsin's and I've promised myself to welcome orange cones and signs and realized that driving more slowly, if it means a smoother ride down the road, is much more important than pushing through traffic. After all, how much more quickly do we need to get places? Another good reason not to have a packed schedule: biker saftey. :)
Day 41: Osseo to Wisconsin Rapids, WI
Instead of only corn and soybean fields, cranberry bogs began to pop up. I talked to my father on the phone yesterday and he mentioned that the largest grower in the U.S. of ginseng was in Wisconsin. I thought, "Ginseng in *Wisconsin*?" "You sure, Dad?" "Yeah!" and my dad began to describe what the leaves looked like. I assumed my father got Wisconsin mixed up with some other place and that his facts weren't straight. But, I found out my dad (as is often the case) was right: Marathon County in northern Wisconsin hosts the largest ginseng farm in North America. Our route doesn't take us this far north, though all the fields in green that I couldn't identify today I assumed to be ginseng.
Before riding the trainer for a couple of hours this afternoon, I finished a Steinbeck novel, _Tortilla Flats_. It was basically about a bunch of friends hanging around near Monterey. Each character vignette seemed to be an allegory for *something*, though I couldn't figure out what. I didn't try very hard to figure it out, though. I suppose the book, like this ride and all the people and places I'm experiencing, is simply "as is." And that's cool without having to be overtly exciting.
Day 40: Pepin to Osseo, WI
A group called something like "The Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Society" served us breakfast. They maintain the history of her travels across the U.S. from her birthplace in Pepin, WI, upkeep one of her former homes, and run the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum. A large sign of a cartoon caricature of a girl in a large white bonnet, blue skirt, and white apron, head tucked down, holding a pink flower ensures that all passersby on Highway 35 don't miss the museum.
Now, I remember reading _Little House in the Big Woods_ and _Little House on the Prarie_ when I was 12 or so. One of the few things I remember from the books was that Laura's mother patted the cornbread batter with her hands to sweeten the loaf before putting it in the oven. "Your mother's touch is all the sweetness we need," her father had told her. I also remembered a part of a story of Laura and her family eating watermelon next to a campfire while coyotes howled in the distance.
These images crossed my mind as I rode in the support van through the hills on County Road D through Modena and Mondovi on the way to Osseo. I passed an old Lutheran "Kirke" where Country Road D met Country Road J--the only building for miles in the rolling green hills. In Mondovi, as I stood right outside a green-trimmed yellow house dedicated to the Green Bay Packers, I waved to a family driving their horse and buggy down County Road H. The father, hat brim low, turned and tossed a quick wave while the mother, keeping her eyes ahead, held her young son on her lap on top of the folds of her long black skirt. I imagined that family still living in a little house in the big woods; I imagined the people living in the Green Bay shrine barbecueing on their front lawn while cheering the Packers to another SuperBowl win. Wisconsinites.
Day 39: Northfield, MN to Pepin, WI
So Harry/Dr. Seper did not give the all clear to ride my bike, but he DID say that regaining movement in my shoulder was key. Because I had been wearing a brace since the accident, I only had minimal movement in my shoulder. He encouraged me to start doing everyday things again that I had avoided: brush my teeth with my right hand, comb my hair and draw it back in a ponytail, wash my face with two hands . . . . And so I started to last night. It was all very tough-- I had to slide my hand up the wall in order to raise it high enough to begin tying back my hair.
I also decided last night that since I couldn't ride my bicycle, and since I had been advised to do "everyday things" again, I would go for a run on the Cannon Valley Bicycle Trail that the bicyclists took this morning. It's a beautiful paved trail connecting Cannon Falls to RedWing, about 20 miles apart. Yup, me, stubborn (as usual) and a bit frustrated that I couldn't rejoin the other riders just yet, went for a 20+-mile run with a *slightly* broken collarbone.
The trick was that once I started, I couldn't turn back. There is no road paralleling the bicycle trail, no intersections to turn off on. The trail stretches for those 20 miles through dense trees, thick mosquito patches, and towards the end of the trail, behind industrial warehouses--which the trees do a fair job covering up the view of. But I went slowly and pressed on, chatting with fellow bicyclists as they rode past. Many rode alongside next to me including Diana, a first mate on shipping vessels that travel between the West Coast and Hawai'i; Mark, a former officer in the Air Force and recently home to the U.S. after two years in Africa in the Peace Corps; John, a jeweler from Colorado; and Paul, my riding buddy for the past several weeks, a British actuary with a quick wit. They offered me water, food, and their great company. I felt as if I were in the Tour de France, my crew supporting me the entire way. And I did make it to Red Wing, sore though happy, where we had a lunch stop at a marina.
There happened to be a statue of Charles Lindbergh near the picnic tables we ate at. The bronze memorialized him as a boy, smiling, balanced on one foot, leaning forward, arms outstretched to his sides as if he were a bird. And I couldn't help but think: how appropriate. :)
Tonight I walked to the BP station a few blocks from the school. Unlike most gas stations, the food mart had a few tables indoors you could sit at and enjoy the ice cream or burger or muffins (that were baked down the street) you bought from the counter. A couple of friends and I each ordered a double scoop of Moose Tracks ice cream (chocolate bits, caramel, pecans, vanilla ice cream). "Could you make that an *extra large* double scoop?" The bushy red-haired manager smiled, handed us the ice cream, and swept the floors and chatted with us as we ate the tracks left by humongous moose.
